Walled-in disquiet, the window painted white
on the inside. Overlooking the high street
like a malignant eye.
The room a hate-furnace:
inside a brandy barrel, liquid dark divides,
begins to curdle.
No matter how often the corridor paced,
where the room should be is vanished.
What made the girl’s eyes roll white
threatens to seep out of the bilge,
the barrel to explode in shards
each time you gaze up at the window,
looking back sightless.
Published in Twenty-Two Twenty-Eight
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Dear Poeter, Window rooms do
Dear Poeter, Window rooms do not have smiles when looking for man; On the contrary, when man admires the world through the window there are no worries in the mind. The shadows of the walls search for man until the man's movement, which is running to collect memories in the unstable life journey, is completely stopped. Memories of the past are dusted off by another man as shadows of revised rooms after breathing has stopped. This poem really impressed me. All The Best My Dear Friend; Write More Congratulations
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